Something so obnoxious as running into a tree
is suddenly deemed reasonable once they know it’s you.
You, darling dear, once ferocious and autonomous,
those were hands of play.
Questions quietly considered are
    never mentioned.
Teasing along as if the branches
were embracing you.
Long sleeves: allies to a not-so-noble cause.
Kisses ache between a bitten tongue and
rabid lips.
You press that smile to your marked eyes.
Cough those giggles out.
The game has been set.
Your view is so blemished and it’s only silently
that these ideas become fixed onto your arms.
Your favorite pair of jeans ripped and your skin is
nervous.
Between all the bottles in formation
he’s picked his poison.
Aptitude lies within those broken veins.
Clumsy.
Clumsy.
  Clumsy.
If they had only built better walking paths around
the trees.

I'm disappointed by the fact that
     I'm even spending this much energy
                                                         on you.
You don't deserve these words.
               What you deserve
is what you have laid on those around you.

And I doubt you'd be able to handle that.

The only forgiveness you'll receive is the forgiveness I'm giving you
                   for being a person that
someone like me would rather not use energy for.

Accomplished by eating a
whole box by yourself
without the option to share.

that bring those lemon slices back to my tea
which never quite appealed to you.
Once in a fair while, as you sit whistling that tune,
hoping I'd be smirking,
I'd hum loudly. Out of key. And tastelessly.
So consumed in your troubles,
the beer bottles, wines, tabs that are hardly tipped,
the wink in your hypocrisy kissed my pride.
I flinch now. These days have made me flinch.
Gratifyingly so, your fingers are louder than
your lips.
I do not know the taste of your lips.
No one kisses on Tuesdays.
Maybe Wednesday, but we never see each other
then.

Time suggests that we, as humans, must
never fail to race yet always, we lose.
Sands stroked by waves are not so gently
stroked when named.
The ever so calming ticks equal the calm before a death storm.
Our veins pulse as we mask our paranoia
with a stressed-filled eyebrow and a nervous knee,
a natural metronome.
The beard of the old man is of first relief.
We begin to swap those tired eyes with ours and
sore hands with ours.
We cannot tell the difference.
It ceases to stop yet we carry it along, thinking
it will soon wear down.

I guess shoving the sheets under my pillow so precisely didn't help.
I watched you throw the quarter in hopes it was going to sink.
But you, military man, you smirked and let me off.
I think those early nights when the TV was still going and I’d cuddle into the little nest
of your legs as you slept so loudly reminded me.
Your rough hands also reminded me. As when one grabbed my ear
for I decided to be sassy for a moment.
Even though I knew it was hard to say yes, I think you saw the yearning on my face
and I saw the hesitation on yours but I would just whisper dad.
For some reason, buying them didn't matter because you thought those books were necessary.
You already had Shakespeare and the thought of my own haunted my thoughts.
But those rough hands weren't always rough.
And that nest wasn't around as often.
But my books are still napping lightly.



Sometimes I see the old woman’s face staring at me after she told me
that you didn't know what you would do without me.
I didn't stand there very long. You never told me.
So, I didn't believe her.
Maybe it was the seventh or maybe the eighth concert
when I didn't see you out in the audience.
By the fourth year, I forgot you even knew.
I stopped telling people my mom was coming.
Sometimes I would cry for you as you were tenaciously
bent over in the kitchen working on your Korean food.
But you also had rough hands. Ones that meticulously graced a shade of rose on your lips
before work each morning.
Guilt washed over me as a little more than kin and less than kind
surfaced in my thoughts.
The stain in your eyes said you wanted me to do more.
As much as you focused
you didn't know what else could have been done.
I wanted so much not be the progeny of hard hearts.



Humility was a virtue you reminded me so fully I had to practice.
Pride was a fault, turn the other cheek.
He that is proud eats himself up, hoping you hadn't misquoted.
You wanted me to read. But academically speaking, reading was too expensive
and not meant for some.
Why bother?
Mom had turned out fine.
And one day I’ll just have rough hands as well.



I think I watched you go outside four times for a smoke
before you finally finished balancing the check book.



I had recounted over and over in my head if it had been a dream.
Sometimes I have to tell myself it was in order for
it to be that much easier.
I didn't like believing that either of you were considered a pillar.
Because you hadn't been.
Sometimes I forget, but then the books begin to snore
and the pink shade peeks through my makeup bag.
I wasn't one for pleading. It had been years, I’m sure, since
you’d heard it the last time. What is past is prologue, though
he had mentioned it in different context.
When you answered the phone, humility set in and I had
become a child again.
My worn hands were bleeding and I had no one else to lean on.
Shakespeare had been in slumber for far too long.